


uncertain questions and conflicting responses

by silentsonata



Series: nice but inaccurate oneshots [11]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Desperation, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Questions, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Tension, Whumptober
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 05:33:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20902442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentsonata/pseuds/silentsonata
Summary: In which questions, not all of which are answered, are the stepping stones throughout Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship.





	uncertain questions and conflicting responses

_Yes_?

Crawley’s sentences are silently laden with that word, trying to rouse the angel to anger. He must play his role, must convince himself, somehow, that he is wholly evil, just as everyone else believes. He is almost seeking punishment from Aziraphale as something to push him into believing. _S’what a demon does. Tempt ‘n’ corrupt ‘n’ all. _He uses his words to poke and prod in the most uncomfortable places he can find and waits for the angel’s outburst.

_No._

The reply comes, and it is like a balloon that won’t pop no matter how much you jump on it. Aziraphale won’t, _can’t_, be angry at Crawley. They are on opposite sides, and that is that, as far as he is concerned. He shuts Crawley down, leaving it all up to the Almighty, and prays that loving humans just that little bit too much won’t get him into trouble. Love can’t be a sin, right? He lets Crawley prod him all over, then forgives him. _Just as an angel cannot be punished for love, a demon cannot be punished for temptation._

Something strange bubbles up inside Crawley. He puts it down to the apple he’d eaten for breakfast.

_Yes?_

Crowley has changed, name and all, a few thousand years later, and he tries to vex Aziraphale again as they watch an innocent man punished for the love he showed. He is more experienced now, and this time he directs the attack at the angel’s love. Crowley is begging for attention, for Aziraphale to succumb to one of his words. He sees the pain in Aziraphale’s eyes, tries to curdle it into hate, but pain that is the backlash of pure love cannot be tainted.

_No. _

Crowley is defeated by a word that doesn’t even need to be said. Neither of them is at fault, Aziraphale seems to say. He doesn’t comment on whether he thinks the policy decisions are right. The man on the cross and Crowley have a lot in common, Aziraphale thinks. Both of them are condemned by the people around them, for a start. Where the true blame lies is up to the Almighty, he asserts, and he notes the little disbelieving frown that flits across Crowley’s face. When he guesses at Crowley’s name, Aziraphale expects grandeur, expects vanity, expects the highest (or lowest, depends how you think about it) echelon of Hell.

When he hears it, Aziraphale physically restrains himself from smiling. Perhaps not all demons are as bad as he thinks.

_So?_ Crowley proposes, gesturing at the lonely actor on the stage, who is putting all his heart into a soliloquy that no-one is listening to. He almost pities the poor man, who has no choice to go on playing the role assigned to him. It is fitting, he thinks, that they are here to watch a tragedy. No-one ever pays attention to tragedies, no, not until it concerns them, not until it’s too late. He flips a coin, lets Aziraphale call heads, and is glad that he has somebody to stand next to. Who cares if he deserves it or not? Crowley raises an eyebrow, already aware of what the response will be.

_Of course not!_ Aziraphale bites back. Then he holds his tongue, reconsiders, and concedes. He sees the mirth flash across Crowley’s eyes, just above the curved line where the small lenses of his sunglasses end, thinking that perhaps breaking the rules once in a while is worth it. Aziraphale has to remind himself that he does not have the luxury to choose how much he is aligned with Heaven, that nobody can know that he dwells in a place between absolute divinity and hellishness (daringly, he calls that grey area “humanity”). The coin is tails-side up, and it tells him that, whether he imitates humans or not, fate is against him regardless.

_Yes? _

The question is lightly flicked off Crowley’s tongue as he hands over the briefcase of books, attempting to make it look like it means nothing to him. He is not denied this time, and as the weight of the bag is transferred into Aziraphale’s hands, Crowley straightens his hat and casually begins walking away. The strange feeling swells up inside him again. Strange, Crowley thinks. He hadn’t had breakfast that day.

“Lift home?”

_I won’t deny you_ is implied in the way Aziraphale shimmies into his seat in the Bentley, commenting on how well-kept it is. Crowley snaps, as a demon is meant to, that _of course it’s well-kept, who do you think I am?_ Aziraphale’s mouth is forcibly closed by how fast Crowley drives back, and even his tartan bowtie seems to have a slight tinge of green after the car finally comes to a halt. Aziraphale doesn’t say _never again. _Sometimes, what isn’t said is more important than what is.

_Please don’t. _

Aziraphale hands over the thermos and does not care to elaborate. They both know the risks, have known the risks since the seeds of their friendship were planted. Now, it is a garden in full bloom, and Aziraphale is fighting to keep it alive. There is no question asked in response, as there normally is, but he offers an answer nonetheless.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

_Yes? _Crowley pleads. Alpha Centauri is a long way away, and suddenly they have what seems to be the luxury of choice. They aren’t _humans_, aren’t confined by the boundaries of the Earth. They can do anything. Almost anything, Crowley thinks, which is why they have to go away.

_I can fix this_, Aziraphale says, and it is neither a yes or no. But there is disbelief in Crowley’s eyes, and Aziraphale’s bottom lips quiver at the sardonic response he receives. _There’s still time. She’ll listen to me, I promise_. He hopes that he hasn’t made the wrong choice.

This time, Crowley is the one to say no and Aziraphale is the one left wanting. Aziraphale finds himself all too vulnerable in the empty bandstand, otherwise alone in the park, hopes falling like leaves from the trees. He finds himself all too human. There is no longer anything to hold up the shield he has put up against his humanity, and it falls to the ground, too late.

Aziraphale is left to blame himself. He is left to ask questions: _What if? Why? How? _The most pertinent question of them all stands out like a sword amongst rose thorns.

Did the shield he’d put up to deny his humanity protect him, or simply cover his eyes and blind him?

**Author's Note:**

> this is day 4 of whump-tober: human shield, a very metaphorical interpretation (find [here](https://whumptober2019.tumblr.com/post/187356400823/october-approaches-and-so-does-whumptober-2019)) :D
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr!](https://silent--sonata.tumblr.com/)   
[Chat to me on Discord!](https://discord.gg/pTcajxx)   



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